


Coronation Day

by stillwaterseas (phoenixflight)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comedy, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas
Summary: Damen juggles a number of last minute problems as the new King of Vere is about to be crowned.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 88
Collections: Captive Prince Secret Santa 2020





	Coronation Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marrieddorks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrieddorks/gifts).



> Thanks to Mist for seeding the idea and Joss for the beta!   
> Marrieddorks, I think you're cool, I hope you enjoy this lil bit of fluff!

Marlas was packed for the coronation of the King of Vere. Every inn and boarding house in the township was full to bursting, and the hills around the fort looked like a cheerful battle camp — tents and paddocks arrayed in untidy lines, bedecked like the city streets with garlands and ribbons in the colors of Vere and Akielos. 

The fort at Marlas, which had been designed to administer and oversee nothing bigger than mid-level military campaigns, was engorged with the preparations for the largest political event of the year. It swarmed with servants, merchants, extra cooks and stablehands, all brushing shoulders with high-ranking nobles and their retinues who had come from as far away as Kempt for the occasion. 

Damen nearly collided on the stairs with a servant carrying a floral bouquet the size of a small goat, and then he and Pallas, who was on guard duty, had to press against a wall in the corridor to avoid being trampled by two laundry maids hauling an enormous basket of linens between them. They didn’t appear to notice the King of Akielos and his guard squeezing out of their way. 

He made it to the door of the royal chambers, where Lazar was so distractedly trying to direct foot traffic that he barely managed to leer at Pallas. Damen scooted inside, past the steward who was on his way out, and immediately came face to face with the Veretian Councilor Herode. “Pardon me, Exalted!” he exclaimed. “If you have a moment as long as you’re here, may I ask you, would it be more appropriate to refer to the unification of Akielos as remarkable or impressive?” 

Damen blinked at him. “Either?” 

“In my speech, I want to draw a parallel between your father’s conquest and the New Artes project. Without, of course, calling it conquest!” he added hastily. 

“I’m sure remarkable or impressive will be fine,” Damen said, orienting himself mentally. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

“Of course.” He bobbed past, out the door, and Damen surveyed the room for his husband. Laurent was nowhere to be found in the outer chamber, but a steady flow of foot traffic in and out of the bedchamber directed Damen’s attention. He poked his head inside.

Theoretically the two of them had slept there together the night before, but they had been besieged with last minute planning worries until late into the night, new messengers arriving at the door long after dark, and then woken early and each had separate business to attend to. It felt as if they had not spoken more than two words privately to one another in days. 

Laurent was standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed, as servants and clothiers swarmed around him. His gauzy undershirt gaped open at the collar, unlaced. He stood barefoot on a low stool, in tight ivory colored trousers embroidered almost invisibly with silver thread and seed pearls. Damen leaned against the doorframe and admired the view. 

Looking up, Laurent caught Damen’s eye over the head of the tailor fussing over his hems. “I thought the outfit was finished,” Damen said, in Akielon, so as not to offend the Veretian tailor. 

Laurent’s lips twitched. “I thought so too.” 

“How are you holding up?” 

“Fine.” Laurent lifted his arms to allow a servant to slip his jacket on. It laced up the back like all of Vere’s most formal outfits. It wouldn’t be a special occasion if it were possible to dress oneself for it unaided. 

Damen studied his husband, noting the tension in his shoulders and his jaw, the impatient twitch of his finger tips. He wasn’t fine, but that was understandable. Damen had been jittery before his own coronation, and that had been a short ceremony at the Kingsmeet followed by a festival, not the five hours of esoteric pomp, sermonizing, and memorized declarations that the Veretians had planned. There had been a rehearsal the day before, with the judicial magistrate officiating, the councillors and nobles who had roles in the ceremony, and the musicians playing an impressive repertoire of traditional music. There were half a dozen ceremonial items which all needed to be invoked at the appropriate time, and some of them hadn’t even been unpacked yet. Damen had stopped paying attention some time around the two hour mark. 

The tailor made a few more adjustments to the fit of the jacket and then waved at the servants to start taking it off Laurent again. Laurent pressed his lips together, annoyed. Two more servants bustled into the room carrying Laurent’s dress armor, which he would wear tomorrow for the procession and tourney. Behind them was Lady Vannes, bobbing a deep curtsey. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your Highness. Your Majesty. There’s been some confusion about the seating arrangements for the feast.” 

Laurent’s eyes narrowed, and Damen hastily put a hand on Vannes’s arm. “I’ll help you sort that out. We can talk about it out here.” He steered her out of the bedchamber and managed to conjure up enough details of the Veretian nobility to advise her on the respective seating of the Lord of Marches and the unwed daughter of the Lord of Varraine. 

As he ushered Vannes out into the hallway, a flustered page boy came rushing up. “I need to see the Prince!” he exclaimed to Lazar. “I mean the King! It’s an emergency?” 

“What’s the emergency?” Damen asked, looming in the doorway. 

The boy did a double take at him and then almost bent double in a bow. 

“The ceremonial chalice is missing, your Majesty,” he said, addressing Damen with the Veretian honorific. 

“Ceremonial chalice?” Damen echoed, vaguely remembering a mention of a goblet among all the rest of the ritual regalia. “What happened to it?” 

“Nobody knows, your Majesty! It was packed on the cart with the rest of the items for the ceremony, but it’s not with the sword and scepter in the great hall. The ceremony can’t go on without it,” he added, fiddling with a wrist-lace which had come loose in his hurry. 

Damen suppressed a sigh, and jerked his head at Pallas, who was waiting for him in the hall. “Don’t worry,” he said to the boy. 

They found Nikandros directing yet more flowers being unloaded by the main gates, and Damen explained. 

“All of the ceremonial regalia from Arles arrived by guarded cart overland from Marches two days ago,” Nikandros said. “It would have been unloaded by the servants on the baggage train along with the fort’s own staff, supervised by the steward. Everything else is where it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”

“Apparently. I’ll ask the steward if he remembers who was working that day.” 

Another errand boy, Akielon this time, came scuttling up to them, bowed low to Damen, and said, “Kyros, the winch on the chandeliers in the main hall is stuck again.”

“You realize this isn’t my fort any longer?” Nikandros said. “Nor am I a journeyman builder.” 

The boy colored. “I’m sorry, Kyros, only I remember you fixed it last time and we’re supposed to have them all lighted before the guests are seated…” 

Nikandros sighed, “Yes, I’ll deal with it. Damen, let me know if you can’t find the goblet.” 

“Let’s find the steward,” Damen said to Pallas. 

They were retracing their steps into the fort when a voice called, “Exalted!” 

Damen checked his steps and turned. It was Lord Estienne, one of the Veretians who had struggled to adjust to the news that the slave who had performed in the ring and the gardens of Arles was to be one of their new rulers. He normally avoided Damen studiously but it appeared that his personal discomfort had been overcome by his current crisis. 

“What’s wrong, Lord Estienne?” 

“Exalted, the musicians haven’t arrived yet.” 

“The ones who played yesterday at the rehearsal? They must be somewhere in the city. Send someone out looking for them.” 

“We have already, but what should we do if they can’t be found?” 

Professional musicians were a Veretian [thing]. In Akielos, travelling minstrels and poets told stories and sang in village squares, and music in noble halls and respectable homes was played by slaves, or more recently, ex-slaves kept on at pitiful wages for the skills only they could provide. Damen looked helplessly at Pallas.

“I can play the pennywhistle?” Pallas offered uncertainly. 

Damen shook his head. “Go find the steward and ask him about the cart. I’ll see if Nikandros knows of any musicians among the freed slaves or the townspeople.” 

“Thank you Exalted,” Estienne said, backing away. 

Nikandros wasn’t in the great hall but all the chandeliers appeared to be lit. Damen eventually found him washing grease off his hands at the pump in the courtyard. Nikandros gave him an extremely harried look when Damen asked about the musicians, but said, “I’ll find someone.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Damen said. “How’s the broken winch?”

“Vanquished,” Nikandros said. “For now. Did you find the goblet? Where’s Pallas?”

“He’s speaking to the steward.” They crossed the courtyard together, dodging a carter with a cart full of live chickens, and turned toward the main hall. 

Descending the stairs in dress armor was Torveld of Patras. He halted when he saw Damen and Nikandros, and bowed. “Exalted, Kyros,” he greeted them. 

Nikandros returned his bow. “Prince Torveld. Damen, I’ll see you before the ceremony.” 

Damen nodded to his friend as Nikandros excused himself. He found himself alone in the busy courtyard with Torveld, the carters, the servants, a few nobles still arriving, and a stray chicken clucking uncertainly underfoot. 

“It’s good to see you again,” Torveld said politely. 

“Yes.” Damen let out a huff of laughter and Torveld smiled in acknowledgement. They had exchanged formal greetings when Torveld’s party arrived for the coronation but the last time the two of them had spoken alone Damen had still worn the slave collar. Damen’s own coronation had been too hasty to invite foreign dignitaries. “You as well. I hope the journey was not too arduous.” 

“Worth the distance,” Torveld said. “It is a pleasure to be here on such an auspicious occasion. I’m very glad for Laurent.”

Damen nodded. “We have you to thank in part for it.” 

“A very small part,” Torveld said modestly. “Yours was far greater.” 

There was a pause, filled with the noise of the courtyard. A stablehand and two carters were arguing loudly in an incomprehensible jumble of Veretian and Akielon slang. A stray cat made a leap at the loose chicken, which fluttered away clucking wildly. “How are the slaves?” Damen asked. 

“They are well, and comfortable in the palace at Bazal. I imagine Erasmus would like me to convey his regards to you, although he is too bashful to suggest such a thing himself. He was very shocked when we learned of your true identity.” 

“I’m glad to hear he and the others are cared for,” Damen said, and resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “I have every trust that your slaves are well treated…” He trailed off. The economic upheavals of ending a centuries-old slave trade between their two kingdoms could not be lightly discussed. 

“Of course,” Torveld said. “I understand you have brought new perspectives to your kingship.” 

It was a verbal sidestep almost worthy of Laurent. Damen remembered that Prince Torveld had already been conducting the diplomacy of war as a young commander when Damen himself had been kicking in his mother’s womb. He smiled. “I look forward to our continued friendship with Patras. You have been graceful in the face of all the change Laurent and I have wrought.” 

“I knew when I supported Laurent against his uncle that he would do remarkable things, if given the chance.” His eyes danced. “And I also knew it would be a fortunate man who sat by his side.” 

“I feel fortunate,” Damen said. 

“You know, the night we met, when I was so jealous that he couldn’t keep his hands off you,” Torveld cast a glance sideways at Damen, “I didn’t know, of course — couldn’t have guessed — but I thought it was odd he would keep a slave who bore such a striking resemblance to the royal family of Akielos. You look very much like your father did in his youth.” 

Damen’s heart thumped. Before he could form a response, Pallas came striding across the courtyard. “Exalted…” 

“Prince Torveld, if you’ll excuse me.” 

Torveld nodded gracefully. “I’m sure we will have a chance to speak again. Best of luck, this afternoon.” 

“Thank you. Pallas?” 

“I found the steward and he sent me to the servants who unloaded the cart,” Pallas said. “They were upset to hear something was missing.” Most likely they knew that if it had been stolen they would be the first under suspicion.

“Where were the things taken?” Damen asked. 

“In addition to the boxes that went to the great hall for the ritual, some went to the display room in the armory and some of them went to the kitchen. I understand there were a number of fine wines being transported along with the coronary jewels.” 

“You check the armory, I’ll check the kitchen.” Damen’s breakfast had been rushed, many hours ago. 

The kitchens were loud, hot, and crowded even on normal days. Now Damen felt as if he were in danger of knocking someone over as he edged inside. Cooks were yelling, servants were yelling, scullery maids were rushing to and fro with dirty dishes. No one seemed to have noticed the King of Akielos lurking in the doorway. The sizzle and hiss of frying oil and the thudding of knives filled all the gaps in the voices, turning the air into a wall of sound that smelled deliciously of feast-day foods. The long wooden table in the center of the kitchen was already groaning with finished dishes. Damen recognized Veretian and Akielon poison tasters both working over the trays before servants whisked them away. 

It took him six tries to find someone he could corner to ask about the boxed chalice. The first several people he approached glared at him so ferociously he backed away, and one girl frantically beating egg whites into a froth looked about to burst into tears when he said “Excuse me.” 

He eventually found a cook relatively at rest, supervising a pot of boiling dumplings. She was a red-faced, Veretian complexioned woman who spoke Akielon like a local. He explained he was looking for and indicated the size of the box in the air with his hands. 

“A box? With a fancy label printed on it?” The woman scooped dumplings out of the water expertly with a slotted spoon. “I reckon that would have been a wheel of cheese, it would have been sent up to the dining hall for the cheese display. I don’t remember it specific-like, but all the cheese went up to the hall.” 

“Cheese display,” Damen muttered under his breath. He thanked the woman and stole a pastry from a tray as he left the kitchen.

In the dining hall he found a maid who recognized his description of a small box, labeled in Veretian, containing an ornate chalice. “Goblet,” he translated into Akielon. 

“There was a box with a sort of cup in it, but it didn’t look like it was for drinking out of,” the maid said worriedly. “Too nice for that. I think someone put flowers in it, you know, as a display? It’s here somewhere.” The both turned to survey the laden table. Every inch that wasn’t covered in plates and platters of food was spilling over with fresh flowers. “I’m so sorry, Exalted, was that wrong?” 

“It’s alright, no one is in trouble. Will you help me find it?” 

They found the empty box first - someone with no time for details had tucked it under the table, hidden by the drape of the cloth. Pallas arrived, having found nothing in the armory, and joined them in upsetting every single flower arrangement along the length of the enormous feast table. 

The chalice was hidden under a bundle of riotous chrysanthemums. “Is anyone going to drink out of it?” the serving girl asked nervously, holding an armful of dripping, liberated flowers. She eyed the bits of leaf and petal clinging to the inside of the goblet. “Ought someone to wash it?” 

Damen sighed, thanked the girl, and went back out to the pump in the stableyard to wash the chalice. He packed the it carefully back into the sawdust, put the lid on the box, and handed it off to Pallas with strict instructions to deliver it to the great hall. 

“I see the Prince has found a use for you still, King of Akielos,” came a voice behind him. The woman spoke heavily accented Veretian with a familiar, husky rasp. Damen turned, wiping his wet hands on his chiton, smiling a greeting. Halvik had been invited to stay in the fort, along with all the other foreign dignitaries, but had unsurprisingly declined, choosing to camp with what appeared to be most of the entire clan of Vaskian women, infants and children included. Damen glanced at the handful of women accompanying Halvik, about to extend a greeting to all of them, and froze. 

Halvik was an imposing sight in layers of gleaming animal pelts, wearing bangles and pendants of polished animal teeth that clinked as she walked. She was drawing stares in the busy hall from the servants and nobles alike. But Damen was staring at one of Halvik’s women. He couldn’t remember her name but her round, cheerful face instantly conjured the memory of firelight and sweat and the taste of Vaskian liquor. She also wore furs and bone jewelry, and she was obviously, enormously, pregnant. 

“Kashel wished to pay her regards to the Prince,” Halvik said, following Damen’s gaze. 

“Kashel,” Damen repeated, seizing on the name and counting backward hastily. Kashel smiled at her name and nodded affably at him. Unbelievably, it had been less than a year since he was woken in Ios to the slaughter of his household. All that had followed had spanned less than a full ten months. He gulped. “Is she… I mean, she… did I… is it mine?” 

“Babies do not belong to men.” Halvik sniffed. “They belong to tribes. But if you wish to visit the mountains, we will soon be having naming ceremonies.” 

“How many?” Damen asked faintly. 

“Five, if all are born safe.” 

Slightly light headed, Damen put his hand against the wall. Kashel was beautiful, round and radiant, healthy-looking. “Should she have travelled so far?” 

Halvik snorted. “A few hundred miles in fair weather? Is not far. Riding is good for the body. Speeds labor. Your people have a saying, do you not? ‘Born in the saddle’?” 

“I see,” Damen said faintly. 

“Exalted! Oh my goodness, I beg your pardon ladies.” It was Lord Estienne, looking faintly shocked by the Vaskians. 

Halvik bowed slightly. “We look forward to celebrating the new King of Vere,” she said, and Damen stood aside as she swept past with the other women behind her. Kashel sent Damian a luminous, flirtatious smile. Damen swallowed again. 

“We found the musicians!” Estienne announced. “They were in a tavern.” 

“What? Oh.” Damen blinked his attention away from Kashel’s retreating back. “A tavern? Are they sober enough to play?” 

“Oh yes. Musicians are always sober enough to play.” 

“Good,” Damen said faintly. 

“Damen!” Damen turned gratefully at Nikandros’s voice. “Why aren’t you dressed? Did you find the chalice?” 

“Yes, Pallas has it, but — ” 

“Good. Let’s get you into your proper clothes.” 

“Nik — ” 

“Come on, the guests are already being seated.” 

“ _ Nik _ ,” Damen snapped, digging his heels in against Nikandros’s attempts to tug him up the stairs. “I think I might have gotten five Vaskian women pregnant.” 

“What?” Nikandros blinked and did a rapid double-take around the crowded, bustling corridor. _ “When?” _

“Not  _ now.  _ Months ago! Laurent and I were in Vask, there was a — a coupling fire and this alcoholic drink, and…”

“And women,” Nikandros finished for him. “Five of them.” 

“What do I do, Nik?” 

Nikandros pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “Right now, you go and get dressed and attend your husband’s coronation. We’ll deal with your brand new political crisis later.”

By the time Nikandros had herded Damen back up to the bedchamber, Laurent was gone, as was much of the chaos. A couple of servants were tidying up, and Damen’s body servant, a freed slave, was waiting with his ceremonial garments. 

They were sumptuous, but much simpler than Laurent’s. A decorative chest plate was buckled over his chiton, a heavy red cloak draped across his shoulders and pinned with the lion pin. 

His servant, who had already polished the armor, buffed the edges with a cloth once more, and then added a shine to the gold manacle on his wrist. Nikadnros, who had stopped making a face every time attention was called to it, said, “Let’s go.” 

“What about...?” Damen gestured to his own bare head. 

“I’ve got it, come on.”

There was a narrow servant’s hall behind the dais of the great hall, which had been repurposed as a staging ground for the ceremony. It was dim, even with the wall sconces lit. Laurent, dressed in ivory and gold, glowed. He turned at the sound of their footsteps. 

Laurent let his eyes track slowly over Damen. “Adequate,” he said, lips curling. Damen’s heart thumped joyfully, the rest of the chaos of the day fading away. 

Laurent lifted one hand toward Nikandros who stepped forward with a gleaming box of olive wood in both hands. It wasn’t latticed and inlaid like Vertian woodwork, but simple, Akielon craftsmanship. He opened the lid. Inside, was the delicately wrought golden laurel wreath, the crown of Akielos that Damen’s father and grandfather had worn, each leaf beaten with exquisite detail. Laurent and Nikandros exchanged a brief look as Laurent reached into the box. Damen realized his mouth was open, and closed it. 

Laurent lifted the laurel crown and Damen ducked his head. It had been Nikandros who had crowned him at the Kingsmeet a year ago, and it would be Herode who crowned Laurent in front of the crowd today. But Damen felt his breath catch in his chest as the cool metal settled against his forehead. Laurent trailed his fingers along Damen’s cheek and Damen caught his hand, cradling it against his chest. 

Nikandros closed the box and bowed his head slightly. “Exalted. Your Highness. Good luck.” 

Laurent lifted one eyebrow, arch. “That’s Your Majesty, now.” 

“Not quite yet. Your Highness,” Nikandros said, smiling, and withdrew down the corridor to take his own place in the great hall. 

They were alone in the cool, dim passageway. Through the stone wall they could hear the noise of the hall, hundreds of spectators all packed together, waiting. 

The laurel crown was not heavy. It weighed less than a helm, and the metal warmed gradually until it was the temperature of his skin, but when Damen wore it, he never forgot it was there. Laurent was bare-headed, hair gleaming in the candlelight. 

Damen squeezed his hand, and Laurent arched up to kiss him, careful of their clothes. Laurent’s palm was sweaty, his lips soft. “Ready?” Damen whispered. 

The wayward musicians struck up the first chords of the processional and Laurent’s hand tightened on his. “Of course.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! Follow me on tumblr [@seas-of-ios](https://seas-of-ios.tumblr.com/)


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